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IMPORTANT. 


The attention of the public is called to the fact that the book is fully 
protected by copyright in the United States. 



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%ovc mb (bassion* 


I5Y 






M. HOLLAND. 



CHICAGO; 

M. Holland, Tuhlisher. 


bf'joic- 



COl^VUIGUTKI) 1897 

M. HOI. LAND 

(All Rights Reserved.) 


Xove mb (baeeton. 


It was with an impatient step, but with a glad light 
in his eyes that Richard Preston sought his young wife 
— Mabel — after an absence of three days; the first 
separation they had known in their three months^ 
of wedded life. It had promised to be a longer one, 
but Richard had worked day and night to accomplish 
the business that had called him away, in order to be 
able to return home sooner than he had expected. 
Home! How much that word implied now to one who 
had not known the comforts of a home for twenty years. 
And such a home! Every luxury that money could 
buy to render it a beautiful home, had been placed in 
or around it, but it would have been as nothing in the 


eyes of Richard Preston had it not been for the pres- 
ence of the little woman who had come there as its mis- 
tress and his wife. 

His wife! How he loved to linger over the thought, 
and what a world of happiness it carried with it, and 
yet he had even hesitated to make her his wife, feeling 
that he, a man of thirty-five, had no right to ask a 
young and beautiful girl of scarce twenty years, to 
share his home. For four years he had loved her as 
only a man of his years is capable of loving, but it had 
been without a word or a look to betray that love. He 
had contented himself with being her father’s friend 
and in that capacity her constant companion. But the 
time came when her father died and she was left alone 
in the world, and then the strong man broke down. He 
could bear to see her happy, but he could not see her 
suffer and make no sign, and simply, but with a world 
of tenderness in his voice he tola of his great love and 
asked her to be his wife. She begged for time to think 
of what had come to her as a sudden surprise. A 
week, a month had passed and then she came to him 


2 


and as simply as he had asked her, so did she reply by 
putting her hands in his and looking in his face as she 
said; — 

“ Richard, I will be your wife.” 

There had been times since then when he wondered 
if it would not have been better for her if he had kept 
quiet and stood back until someone nearer her own age 
had won her heart. He was very sure that out of all 
the admirers she had had, there was but one who had 
touched her heart to any extent and he had suddenly 
gone away and was now generally supposed to have 
died about a year before her father’s death. Knowing 
then that he had no rival, his desire was so to conduct 
himself toward his young wife, that he might always re- 
tain her love and that she might never regret having 
married a man so much older than htrself. 

After he had been married but a few weeks however, 
he dropped all doubts and gave himself up to an inten- 
sity of happiness he had scarcely dared dream of. 

Now he was on his way, after a short absence, to the 
one little woman without whom he could not live. No, 


3 


if anything happened to take her from him — his heart 
almost stopped beating at the thought — it would kill him. 

He entered the house softly now, wondering where he 
would find her. Would she be in the little room where 
she had always waited his coming? He hoped so and 
as he relieved himself of his coat and hat he pictured 
her in his mind as he had been wont to see her on en- 
tering the room. Ah! How often during the day did 
the vision rise before him of his wife seated musing be- 
fore the open fire awaiting his return. And he thought 
of the bright smile that lighted up her face, as her eyes 
spoke a welcome. His child wife, he called her and 
surely she looked more a child than a woman with her 
heavy bangs falling almost to the large brown eyes of 
which he was so proud. 

Noiselessly he entered the room where he hoped to 
find her, but she was not in her accustomed place and 
he was about leaving it when a sound as of a sup- 
pressed sob reached his ear, and turning his head he 
beheld his fair young wife crouching in one corner of a 
sofa with her fare buried in the cushions. 


4 


“ Oh, my darling, my darling!” he cried passionate- 
ly, falling down beside her and putting his arm around 
her. 

“ Oh, Richard,” she said, looking up at him through 
tearless eyes, but with a face full of meek agony, and 
as he drew her closer, she added earnestly, “ I am so 
glad you have come.” 

“ Is it my absence that has caused this grief?” he 
asked, kissing her hair and forehead fondly. 

“ Richard,” she replied, not answering his question 
directly, ‘‘ I wish you would promise me never to go 
away again. Don’t leave me ever again, please.” 

“ My little wife, have you'been so lonesome as that? 
I should have left some one here to have been better 
company for you than you have found yourself. Little 
one, have you missed me so much? And I have re- 
proached myself at times for having appropriated the 
love of your young life. I have thought it might have 
been better to have kept quiet, and left you a younger 
man, but now — ” 

She trembled so violently that Richard stopped and 

5 


lo<)king down in o her face asked anxiously if she was 
ill. 

“ No, no,” was the quick reply, but the pale terrified 
look on her face startled and puzzled him. 

“Then you have had trouble of some kind, some- 
thing has worried you. Tell me, my wife. Surely you 
don’t hesitate to tell me freely of all that worries as 
well as pleases you? 

For answer his wife gave one convulsive sob and 
then fainted in his arms. Convinced that there was 
something serious the matter heat once summoned as- 
sistance and sent for a physician and for the kind heart- 
ed maiden lady who had acted as housekeeper in his 
wife’s former home. 

By the time the physician arrived his patient was in 
a condition that more seriously alarmed her husband 
than the fainting fit. She didn’t seem to know him 
and yet she would not let him leave her, but would 
start up and look about her as if terrified and at times 
she would shake as with a chill The doctor questioned 
Richard closely as to whether anything had happened 


6 




I 




to give her a sudden shock and he in turn questioned 
those who had been about her while he was away, but 
apparently there had been nothing and Richard re- 
proached himself for having left her for a day and 
bent over her with a face so full of anxiety and dis- 
tress that Mrs. Marvin, the old housekeeper, could not 
restrain her tears. Indeed, as the hours went on, she 
feared she would have two patients instead of one and 
knowing he had eaten nothing since his return, she 
urged him, as the night wore on, to make an attempt 
to eat the supper that had been waiting for him for 
some hours. At first he refused even to leave the 
room, but before going to the dining room stepped into 
his study to see if any letters of importance awaited 
him. 

On the table at which he always wrote lay an open 
letter which he eyed curiously, as he could not remem- 
ber Moving left it there before he went away. The writ- 
ing was not familiar and he sat down to examine it be- 
fore putting it away. It . was dated just two weeks 
back and in Liverpool, and ran thus; — 


7 


“ My love, my life, my own; — At last I can come 
and claim you before all the world and my heart is 
almost bursting with the loYe I haYe tried so hard to 
keep under control. What haYe you thought of my si- 
lence, that I have iorgotten? No you could never think 
thst, but my darling, I was unfortunate at first and 
grew despondent thinking I could never offer you the 
home and luxuries I wished for you, but now 1 can 
ask you to be my wife before all the world, knowing that 
there are few who can offer you more in a worldly point 
of view than I. I can scarcely restrain my impatience 
as I am detained here on a matter of business, but in a 
very few days after you receive this, I shall be with you 
and my happiness will be complete when your lips tell 
me what your eyes so often have, that you love me — ” 
Richard laid down the letter here and mechanically 
took up the envelope which was addressed to his wife 
but by her maiden name. He had no need to look at 
the signature. He knew now whose hand had written 
the letter, and with a groan his head fell forward into 
his hand. How long he sat there he never knew. He 
could only remember that everything seemed a blank to 
him. Then he roused himself and rising paced the 
room slowly trying to take in the situation. This was 


8 


the shock that had caused his wife’s illness. But could 
nothing ever be done to make matters straight? Must 
his wife — the thought caused him to groan once more. 
Why had not the letter come before he married her? 
But would he — could he give her up, even if it were 
possible now? No, no, a thousand times no. She was 
his all, his and ho one could take her from him. No 
one? Might not the grim monster, death, be even now 
on his way to claim her? Yes, yes, he would give her 
up freely, willingly, if by so doing he could restore her 
to health and happiness, but could he? Ah! That was 
where the trouble came in. Only his death could ever 
release her from what was now a bondage and he was 
likely to live for many years. 

In the morning the servants found the supper of the 
night before still untasted, for through the long hours 
of the night Richard had fought a battle that required 
as much courage and determination as the most re- 
nowned of those who have been made famous by history. 
But when, having changed his clothing and refreshed 
himself somewhat, he appeared before Mrs. Marvin to 


9 


nquire for his wife, that good woman found it impossi- 
ble to suppress a sort of surprise. Never, she thought, 
had she seen such a change in any one in so short a 
time. He looked as though he had been ill for months 
and she hastened to tell him that his wife was better, 
th nking that it was her illness that had caused the 
change, but after he had been in to see her as she lay 
quietly sleeping, a deeper shade of sadness seemed to 
have settled on his lace and she was puzzled. She 
noted too as the invalid rallied that in her presence he 
was always bright and cheerful, but when out of it the 
careworn expression would invariably return. For a 
week things went on in this way and then the invalid 
was able to leave her room, for her illness had not been 
so serious as had at first been feared, and she too began 
to notice a change, not that she felt any difference in 
his treatment toward her, but there was something she 
could not quite understand, and she had hardly seen on 
one or two occasions, when she had come upon him un- 
expectedly, the change in his looks. 

“ Richard,” she said one evening, laying her hand on 


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his arm and looking up into his face, “ are you glad to 
have me about again?” 

“ Glad,” he repeated, folding her in his arms. “Yes, 
little wife,” and then without another wo d her he re- 
leased her and queitly left the room. 

She stood for a moment where he had left her, a puz- 
zled, pained expression coming into her face. Sudden- 
ly it changed to a questionable look. Could he know? 
Had he found out in any way? And with a sudden res- 
olution she followed her husband into his library. He 
did not hear her enter nor did he see her, for he was 
back to the door. 

“ Richard,” she said softly, kneeling before him and 
trying to draw his hands from his face, “ this is not the 
first time you have left me suddenly lest my eyes should 
see the sadness that comes into your face at times. 
Richard, will you not tell me* your wife, what causes 
your sadness?” 

“ Little woman,” he said tenderly, looking at her with 
a world of love in his eyes, “ does my sadness trouble 
you so much?” 


“ Yes, Richard, and more particularly as I h^v’e a 
confession to make that may annoy you s'drh'eWhat. I 
have waited until I was strong enough to bear to talk 
of it. May I now.’” 

“ It is useless, little one^ for I know all; I found his 
letter here on the writing table .and not knowing it was 
not for my eyes, took it up and read enough to show me 
— 0,my little wife, can you not see it is that has caused 
the sadness, the thought that I have bound you with 
fetters I am powerless to break.’” 

“ You would then, Richard, if you could.’ You would 
give me freedom?” 

“ My darling. 1 love you too well not to wish for 
your happiness above everything. Believe me, if I had 
dreamed of his being alive, I should never have asked 
you to be my wife, for I always thought you had given 
your young love to him, and now, you will not mind my 
saying it but I think it would be easier for you, if you 
did not see him should he cOme here.” 

“ Do you care only for me^ nothing for yorirSelf? it 
seeems td mte a woman Ought to be proud of such art 


12 


unselfish husband. Some women would I am sure, but 
Richard, we can’t quite help loving some people more 
than others, can we?” 

“ Do you say that because you think I may blame you 
for loving Walter more than you do me? No, no, little 
wife, I can never do that, but I want to make things in 
the future as easy for you as possible, and that is why 
I said I thought you had better not see Walter.” 

“ Richard, I have seen him.” 

“ Oh, my darling, my darling, it is worse than I 
thought it was.” 

“ No, Richard, I am glad I have seen him. It will 
make things in the future easier. But let me tell you 
of it. His letter came the day you went away, and 
Richard, I can’t begin to tell you how it affected me.” 

“ Poor child,” said her husband tenderly. 

“ You see,” she continued, “ I had cared for him be- 
fore he went away and he knew it, but I so firmly be- 
lieved him dead that the letter came like a shock and I 
did not know how I felt or what I thought. It was the 
day you came home that I come here to answer the let- 


13 


ter and tell him I was married, when he himself was an- 
nounced. Oh, Richard, how I longed for you to spare 
me an interview that could but be painful, but I am 
glad noiv that you were not here.” 

“ Poor child,” again repeated her husband. 

“ It was a strange meeting,” she continued, “ and I 
felt as though I were greeting a man who had risen from 
the dead. I wish I need not tell you of the interview 
but I want to make yoa understand it ail. When he 
asked me for an explanation of my inconsistency, as he 
called it, I told him that in the first place I had never 
been bound to him and when he went away without a 
word, I had believed for a long time that he would sure- 
ly send me a line or a message, but that he did not, I 
the more readily believed the report of his death as I 
preferred that to the belief that he had tried to win my 
heart for his own amusement. I told him I had fought 
hard to bury my love and 1 believed I had succeeded 
when you asked me to be your wife. Had he been liv- 
ing, though I had never heard from him, I should even 
then have hesitated, but he was dead and you were one 


of the best men who ever lived and I felt sure you would 
do everything you could to make riie happy. Then 
Richard he began to reproach me, telling me he had left 
me purposely to prove my love and constancy, and as- 
suring me that he even yet had more of a claim on me 
than you, for although you might claim me for a wife, 
he had my love and intended to keep it too. I will not 
repeat all that he said, for it was terrible, but Richard, 
listen, in reply I told him that though I might have hes- 
itated at one time, I would not now for an instant were 
I free, for my husband has won my whole and undivided 
affection. Yes, Richard,” she added, as with a sudden 
start he drew back and looked, as if fearful his senses 
were leaving him, “ and I told too, before he left that 1 
cared more for you than I ever dreamed I couM ever 
care for him or any one else.” 

“ My own wife? Really mine, my own!” said Rich- 
ard, folding her in his arms. 

“ Yes, Richard, all yours, but you must not blame 
me, if the first letter, and then the interview unnerved 
me so that I did not recover immediately.” 


15 


“ Blame you!" said Richard, but ere he could add 
more, she looked up michievously and asked, “ Would 
you really, really now set me free if you could, and 
leave me for a younger man, when I don’t want a younger 
man? O, Richard, never say such a horrible thing 
again or I shall — scold.’’ 



i6 

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